today I look for you in batterand swirls, in the fridge, breaking off a piece of ice,wiping the countereveryone left the kitchen messy last nightI’m achy in my bonesevidence of too much time spent away“Coming back,” he says,“in Hebrew it means coming back to God”so I am coming backinto the shape of my eyesmy housethe clutter of family and dishesa tomato, a single shoe, evidence of lifesmall perfect things.You are everywhere, I don’t know why you continue with mebut you doand I(with my paradoxical longing to be with you and away)I am coming back.

*

Ps. Thanks for your patience. In the wake of a book launch, I always find myself a little bereft of words.

Flipping through photographswhen all that is here is not hereMy thumb on a crease on the cornerthis is the way we are foreverthis is the way we live.A womansteps into the streetlooks both waysfinds the little white dogand calls her back.She buys groceriesremembers her mannerslooks for loveforgetslooks againgets up when she doesn’t want tofights off her fragilitywants to be strong.The bricksthe wallsthe harrowing escape.Open, empty handsthe creases in them that tell the yearsOh, we loved youWe failed you but we loved youI hope it will be enough.

(This has nothing to do with July 4th, or 1st for that matter. My mind is elsewhere this year. But happy celebrating to you who are running around with sparklers.)

We/

We comeAsWe bringWe/ Well- Here is a storyshaped in skySong of one treeangling around the cloudsin its own particular bendThatcurveone blackened branch/I thought I was better aloneuntil I was aloneand all my songswere quiet

The book won't fit on the shelf/The mynahs copy the sounds of saws sometimesmetal on metal

You shrug it off but you havethat bend nowAnd it isn't griefIt isn't the trap you havebeen avoiding

It isn't the zipped suitcase,smoke disappearing into the airWater takes the form of its containerand the color of its companionsBut water is always waterfilling uppouring outrunning down

It wasn't the heavy stone I thought it wasone tree in the forest bendinga story of roots and skyI told you when we were drivingI told you in the carI remembered him as my brotherbut I knew I was his motherI was no longer completely my ownbut I didn't belong to anyone else either

AndWe allHe wasWe couldn't sayIt was the blood in him that died firstOh- The perfect donor

I’m trying toI can'tMaybe/what they say is unhealthythe waiting for breath-we are caught but they walk away glowing/we redefine healththey walk grooves into the floorthey finally look into our eyesknow they are belovedmaybe/our way in the world is differentmaybe/water will find a way to run clear

It wasn't the stone I thought it would besong of one treesharp branch against the skyIt looked lonelybut it was surrounded by treesWe cameWe couldn't sayYou have to want to be changedyou have to askWe bringaswater is always water

I couldn't find a poem that said what I wanted to say for Mother's Day. So I wrote one. Here it is, this is what I want to say. This is for my own mother, and for all the mothers, especially the ones I know and love. But it's also for you.

Mother

She was caughtsmilingin a net of sleepcushioned in the softness, down and down,diving under, lost in it, turningstretching, weightless, anxiety freeunconscious of desire orloss, unfettered.

untilthe cry. It came from the darkness, razor-like, cuttingthrough the ribbons that suspended her fromher life andshe crashed back downopened her eyes, rubbed them, remembered.hauling herself to her feet,she remembered love,again and again she remembersshe falls out of sleep and into

love, the hopeful eyesthe waiting mouth, the full breastshe holds and soothes and gives the perfect answerI am here, I am exhausted, I am irritated, I am barely awakebut I am here.She will always be herein the night, in the early morningIn the dog-tired noon of the hottest days,for small, soft, little onesfor the big ones, the sun-warmed long limbs and anxious ticsfor gulping and burping and the most annoying questionsto untangle the knots of the arguing siblingsto lose it, and apologize, and sit quietlyto play, sometimes, hopefully

she remembers upon every waking,that love— its ribbons can never be cut—And like a lion she says it again: I am here.